


Nice Shirt: Soiled

by gloss



Series: Nice Shirt [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M, awkward teen boys being stupid, homoerotic fumbling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Larry drags Xander to a party and Oz soils the shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice Shirt: Soiled

###### [s2 after "When She Was Bad" (2x1)]

Xander's on fire.

It's not the good kind of fire. Buffy had danced like he was kindling, like she knew *exactly* what he wanted, and he just stood there, locked into place, desperate to get away and unable to move. Like a pile of sticks.

Then she was done with him and Xander still burned.

He escapes the Bronze and runs all the way home. Which is stupid, of course, because of vampires, but when one of your best friends starts writhing around you, and you're just a seventeen year old guy with rocks for brains at the best of times, you don't really think.

At least that's what he's telling himself.

He runs, flat-out, arms pumping, because a little physical exertion is just what he needs. He runs down the sidewalk, he runs to his house, he runs up the stairs and jumps in the shower and wrenches on the cold water.

He's shivering and his lungs are burning blue-cold as he hops from foot to foot, but his body's not responding. His body's still stuck back there on the dance floor, wanting Buffy, needing her, needing friction and more fuel and he's hard like marble, like a gravestone. Panting, Xander leans against the slick wall of the shower stall and closes his eyes, pulling at his dick, rolling his balls in his palm. This isn't for fun, this is something clinical, antiseptic for the soul, hips rolling, head knocking in time against the wall, threads of heat spinning out from his crotch, across his hands, water flooding his mouth and he's coming, jerking to the side, spewing and biting his lip, shower spray pinging his face like needles and icicles and when he's done and he's empty and twitching, he doesn't feel any better. He kind of feels worse.

Not like it's the first time Buffy was on his mind when he jerked off; that's not the point. Point is, those were fantasies. Idle, happy, silly-sexy things where she turned away from Angel and caught her breath as her eyes met Xander's, and they danced together and she sat on his lap, arms looped around his neck and kissed him and he told her how much he admires her, how much he wants her, how pretty she is, how he'll treat her just right. Daydreams, really, soap-opera crap with lots of porn thrown in for good measure, Buffy in black satin, Xander in a tux, blowjobs and limo rides and all that happy teen-movie sex and love.

It could be his. *She* could be his. He could feel a hell of a lot better if he grew the cojones and went up to Buffy and said, *hey, that was some dance*. She'd blink up at him and smile that weird sweet smile of hers and nod. Never mind that Buffy's not herself tonight; he's not himself, either, he's all jittery and jangly and feverish. Maybe it's a sign. Maybe something is telling him he needs to strike while the iron's hot, while everything's upside-down and turned around.

So he towels off, changes into a clean pair of jeans and his good-luck porno shirt, the peep show one that Buffy said was "cool" when they were figuring out the invisible girl last spring, and he combs his hair, leaving it damp and messy, with his fingers, and he's going back to the Bronze.

He's going, quick pace and this strange, tight, *tense* feeling in the middle of his chest, and he feels like he's heading toward something, like something's waiting for him.

Inside the club, though, it's deader than dead. Not evil dead, no zombies or vamps, just boring and the sound system's playing some chick R&B singer who can hit every high note but never manages to enunciate. He heads back outside, waiting, turning in circles in the alley, and he *knows* he's tempting fate doing this, but his chest's still tight and he's burning up.

"Harris!"

He turns and there's Larry trying to do chin-ups in the doorway. He's gloriously drunk, Xander knows that immediately, red in the face and laughing really high. He drops down to a crouch, then bounces up, grabbing Xander around the shoulders.

"Looking *almost* good, man," Larry says.

"Hey, Larry -" Xander glances around for an escape route. Tonight's his night to get trapped, apparently. "Seen Buffy?"

"Little blonde thing?"

"Yeah."

Xander squirms to the side, but Larry hauls him back. "Nope. Little out of your league, isn't she?"

"Gotta aim for the stars," Xander says.

Larry nods, and this has to be the first time since second-grade T-ball he's agreed with Xander. "What's on tonight in geeksville? Got any hot chess club members on the agenda?"

Scratch the agreement. "Yeah, actually I'm thinking of cruising the Model UN. You know what they say about debaters."

Larry's face crinkles up and Xander worries that maybe there really is a saying about debate club. But then Larry nods enthusiastically, pulling Xander in even closer. "Yeah, yeah. Well, look, Harris, I'm thinking tonight's your lucky night."

He wants to take a step back. A thousand steps back; he never should have left the house, let alone come back here. "Why's that?"

"Tonight, my lovable loser, you're coming with us." At that, Larry yanks Xander in close by the neck; it should be friendly, but none of this is, and there's force behind the gesture, a threat that's palpable even if it's untraceable. "Show you a real party, blow your tiny sheltered brain. What do you say?"

Xander smacks his lips together. "I say, um, you know - I'm okay. Right here, good old Bronze. Think I'll stick around, shoot some pool. You know, do my thing."

"No," Larry says, gravely, roughly. He crosses his forearms in a big X -- which pushes Xander's cheek right up against Larry's thick, sweat-damp neck. He smells like real cologne, like *Obsession* or something. Weird. -- and makes a low, loud honking noise. "Survey says - Wrong answer. Survey *says*, Harris, that what you ought to be saying is, thanks, Larry. Good of you to take pity on sad little me."

"Right, okay." Xander wiggles backward experimentally but Larry doesn't loosen his grip and Xander's neck is starting to ache and then Xander goes cold when Larry lowers his face to the top of his head. Bracing for a raspberry, a mouth-noogie, and wondering, not for the first time, how it is that jocks and other alpha guys are so damn *gay*, but Larry just sniffs him.

Which is even weirder, because, really. Come on. Here he is, half-stumbling after Larry and his crew, still headlocked, and now they're piling into someone's battered Chevy, and the fag jokes are flying fast and furious. They arrive with much honking of the dying horn at someone's house -- Steve, maybe, or Dane -- whose parents are out of town, and there aren't any girls here. Crowd of guys, football and lacrosse and baseball players, musicians and some guys who're already in college, pounding music that'd put Metallica to shame, and three TVs with ESPN, softcore porn, and some car-racing game. And, okay, maybe Xander hasn't hung with any guys other than Giles (if Giles even counts as a *guy*; he'll have to think that over) since Jesse, and he and Jesse were buds, but not like *this*.

Never like this. Not all over each other, wrestling and grunting, spraying beer into each other's mouths. Sniffing each other. But somehow, of course, he and Jesse and guys like them were the ones who're always accused of being gay.

There's something in that fact, something about social status and power, or hierarchies and stuff, but Xander can't put his finger on it, not right now. There's only guy-beer to drink -- MGD and Coors, and Willow told him never to drink Coors because of unionbusting. "When would I drink beer?" he'd asked and she shrugged and grinned. "One of us might get a social life, you never know." -- and he's guzzling it because it keeps him busy and when you're drinking, no one wants to wrestle you. Guys respect the beer.

Then he's drunk. It just slaps into him, sideways, like a wall or a gravestone when he patrols with Buffy; one minute, he was fine and the next, now, he's drunk. The crowd down here starts smearing together and the sounds of the porn and shrieks of the game are duelling, spinning, in his brain, and he needs air. Or maybe a pee. Or both.

He heads for what he thinks is the back door, through a knot of lacrosse jocks, past a music guy in a shiny-slimy shirt who's talking loudly about groupies and blow and David Geffen, pushes it open, and finds not the outside but a hallway. At least it's darker, cooler, quieter in here, and Xander pads down to the stairs at the far end. It feels like being in a museum, hushed back here, and he looks politely at the family portraits on the walls.

Carpet on the stairs, soft and forgiving under his feet, and the party's noise is following him, long spooky wraiths of shouts and music. Because, as he discovers when he reaches the second floor, there's more party back here, and he thinks of the Kids in the Hall, the *real party*, and he hurries past the open door through the eerie glow of a black light and the shouts of football players. All the way down the hall to the last door, and he pushes it open with his shoulder.

Darker, quieter in here, and he can't see, just hear.

Hoarse, soft voice, a guy's. "Bathroom's next door -"

Xander stumbles inside. "Just need some -" Adjusting to the dark, he can see the outlines of things, a girl's canopy bed with ruffles, the glow of a small TV, a little couch-daybed thing under the window, and a slight figure sitting on the couch. The guy doesn't look up, and as he gets closer, Xander can see he's got a guitar in his lap. "Just need a break."

The guy glances up -- sharp face, very pale -- and sets aside his guitar. "Cool."

"What're you playing?" Xander asks and he's drunk, and confused, so he just sits down.

"Mario Kart -" he says, lifting his chin toward the TV, "and some crap pop ballad."

"Multitasker, huh?"

"More like ADD."

Xander grins and the guy smiles back. Oz, his name is Oz, and Xander *thinks* he's seen him around school. He's everything this party, this night, isn't: calm, solitary, probably incapable of even thinking of headlocking Xander and administering a purple nurple. He's little and neat, alterna-cool, and he's actually kind of interesting. His band played a frat party earlier, half of which moved over here when the cops got called.

"Weird night," Xander says.

"Lotta those going around." Oz stretches, arms out, fingers clawing the air, then settles back, a little closer.

Xander's kind of immobilized, wondering what he's doing here. "Hot out there," he finally says. "Like Africa hot."

Oz's smile is small and kind of secret-looking as he shrugs off his overshirt and passes it to Xander. "Tarzan couldn't take this kind of hot."

No one's ever gotten that reference before, and Xander's grinning again as he mops his face and neck. "Not much of a partier, huh?"

Oz shrugs, just one shoulder, just once. "I'm the wheels. Have to stick around."

"I get that," Xander says and he's still got Oz's shirt in his lap, soft blue flannel thing, studded with pills that he can't stop stroking. The beer foams and burbles its way through his veins, and it should be making him more hyper, but he's finally resting, settling down, and this feels -- nice.

He could talk about guitars, or movies, or skating. Ask what color Oz's hair is, because no way is that red-black a color found in nature, or where he got his ears pierced, though a guy like Oz -- Xander's comfortable with generalizing already -- probably does it himself with safety pins and an ice cube. But he doesn't feel like talking.

He just feels like feeling calm. Nice.

Nicest of all, Oz seems to get that. He picks up the controller, goes three times around the track as Toad -- "I'm more a Bowser man myself," Xander says and Oz just ducks his head and gives another secret smile -- then leans back, closer, hand white, bright, on the couch between them.

"Nice shirt," Oz says a while later, and his hand is rising, slow-motion dove or origami swan, all angles and absence of color, and then he's touching the stripper. Index finger, black nail polish, circling the 25-cents, spinning slow and sure and Xander's nipple is under there.

"Thanks," he gets out. "Like it."

Finger on nipple, absently, and maybe Oz just doesn't know the topography of Xander's chest or something. No, he does know, he definitely knows, the pressure's increasing and Oz is leaning in, head tilting slightly like an attentive puppy.

"Xander," Oz says, more quietly than ever.

Against the white of Oz's cheek, Xander's own hand looks very big, kind of rough, definitely dark, but it fits, palm curving over the rise of Oz's cheekbone, getting prickled with stubble, and this is new. But still nice.

Xander doesn't feel like talking. Talking tends to get him into trouble, but he's good at feeling. There's something rough-but-soft, like his shirt, about Oz's lips as Xander's thumb strokes them. Slightly chapped, a tiny scab in one corner, and Oz keeps looking at him as they tilt toward each other, Xander's hand passing into rough, spiky hair, around the curve of skull, and kissing.

He's kissing a guy.

So much for the not-gay thing. He's kissing a guy named Oz, and this guy is kissing him back, nibbling like a fish on the inside of Xander's bottom lip, making him shiver and squirm, and his tongue is wide and strong against Xander's.

This is not like kissing any girl.

Don't think, Xander thinks, then curses himself. Oz's breath is steaming into Xander's lungs, and they're both kissing fast and sure, hand bunching into Xander's shirt, dragging the fabric over Xander's nipple which is aching, peaking, begging for more attention. Don't think, just kiss, you can kiss. Xander wriggles back against the arm of the couch, slouching, pulling Oz with one hand on a belt-loop, the other on his neck, and the kiss, like Oz's neat, small little body, just follows and flows. It's not one kiss any more, it's rapidly becoming, has become, a make-out session. Past singular things -- one kiss, a single grope -- into a flowing, lavalike compound *whole*, full of tooth-scrapes and bumped noses and stubble-burn on his cheeks. Hand up the back of Oz's shirt, over rough spine and soft, tight skin that's warm like the outside of a baking oven, so smooth, and there must be freckles there, and Xander's fingers are searching for them, blind and feeling.

Oz gets his hand in Xander's hair, pulls it a little too hard, makes Xander go still and then kisses him harder than ever, hard and deep, tongue sweeping like sonar and lips mashing against teeth. Making out, and it's rough and strange, like nothing he's ever done before, but his skin's really liking it. Oz's hips are moving against Xander's leg and waist, motion of their own, and then Oz's hand floats, skims, rests over Xander's waist, crotch, teasing.

He looks up at Xander, and his eyes are wide, like a cat's, and suddenly it feels like Oz is asking him something. Asking with stuttered breaths, his palm opening and closing over the lump in Xander's jeans, making Xander grunt a little and push closer. Asking, or proposing maybe, and who is Xander to say no? First time for everything, and when Oz's mouth slides wet, soft, wetsoft over his stomach, Xander's hips buck up, deciding the matter, and then he thinks he hears a low, soft laugh, the sonic equivalent of Oz's kisses. Through the music and the shouts from downstairs, it ought to be impossible to hear much of *anything*.

He shouldn't be doing this.

Xander looks around wildly, like the Candid Camera guy said that over a loudspeaker, like Larry's about to jump out of a corner, yelling at him, flashes going off, like his dad is going to stomp into the room.

All he sees, though, is a fish-pale hand hovering over his arm, patting it lightly, then sliding up around his neck. "Close your eyes. Easier."

Ease is a good thing, Xander can get behind ease, so he nods, tries to obey, wiggling back into the cushions, his eyes closed. Oz was right. Much easier this way, just the jut of Oz's shoulder sharp under his palm, and these oddly *distant* kissing sounds. And the feel of it, warm and slick and -- "Jesus *God*!"

"Sssh," Oz mutters and does that *thing* again, low on Xander's stomach, where it's not really even stomach any more but more like groin, and it's all lips and a twist around *something* -- hair? -- and Xander bucks again, biting his lip, trying to be quiet.

Most people close their eyes to think; not Xander. In the dark, his thoughts slow down to almost-normal speed and he can pretend everyone is as blind as he is. So he's in the dark, lifting his hips, wiggling up until his jeans are around his thighs, and the exposed skin hurts under the new air, sharply cold, until Oz's mouth is there again, familiar and reassuring in a way Xander's own skin has never been.

Holding his breath, one hand holding onto Oz's shoulder for dear life, the other fist stuffed into his mouth, Xander tries to stay still, tries to trust the dark. He knows what Oz's mouth is like, he can still taste Oz's spit on his tongue, but this is, as lips and tongue touch the head of his cock and slide fast all the way down to the root, like Oz is painting candy-cane stripes around the shaft, this is different, foreign, so fucking *amazing* that Xander's squealing into his fist and pushing up blindly, asking for more. Another gasp of waiting when everything goes still and silent, and then there's a hand on his chest again, fingernails across his nipple, as Oz's mouth, it has to be his mouth, pushes down over Xander's dick. Plucking, scraping at the nipple, sucking, swallowing at the dick, and so much sensation that Xander's seasick and shrinking, pushing in, up, everywhere.

Everything's closer except the noises, and he's folding up on himself, into Oz, into depths and murmurs and this constant slithering, frictiony *slide* of heat, and he's heard about blowjobs, read about them, watched them on screens and in his head, but this is *real* and wet and there's the scrape of stubble on his thigh, making him shiver and almost-giggle and it's dark in here, and red, and Oz's tongue keeps wrapping and snaking and teasing.

Snaking up the underside, wrapping around, and there's pressure everywhere, in the center of his dick and around his balls, Oz rocking-rolling them in his hand, slaps of skin and lips far, far away, and all this *fire* unspooling, spinning around, up his spine and into Oz's throat.

Xander's eyes fly open, see the blinding glare of Oz's skin, his forehead wrinkled up and eyes on Xander's face, wide as a lion's, *shining*.

He sees everything -- his shirt shoved up, twisted around his chest, Oz hunched over, his back rising like a snowdrift on a Christmas card. His *face*, eyes that glow beneath thin, drawn little brows, his cheeks bulging. Bulging with Xander's own dick, and inside, around, such soft tight slick heat. He sees Xander looking, Xander can tell, and his brows lift as his lips tighten and slide unbearably more. It should be impossible that Oz is *smiling*, but he really is. This all should be impossible, Buffy and the party and the noise and making out with a guy. A cool guy with thin, smart fingers and this wide, deep mouth and Xander's back arches and seizes, his hand clamps around Oz's skull, and they're looking at each other. Staring, that stutter-heartbeat moment of fear when something is a second away from happening.

Xander pulls this way, then the other, his backbone crackling and melting and he tries to push Oz's head away.

"Man, *fuck*, I'm almost --" His hips jerk and Oz wraps his arm around Xander's waist, pulls him closer and tightens his lips *more* and Xander folds in, pushes deep, Oz's hair tangling in his fingers, as the come gets wrenched from somewhere deep inside his spine and he's shaking as it shoots out. "*Man*--"

It's gone, over, and he flops back, loose as a rag doll, but he's gripping Oz's collar and Oz is following, mouth pulling loose with a long slurp and he's crawling up Xander, straddling him, hand on Xander's cheek, coming in for a kiss.

Which ought to be gross, but it's not like Xander's never snuck a taste. Everyone has, right? Slower now, the kiss sweeps back and forth, tasting like oleo and olives and garlic salt, and Xander feels *good*. Warm all over and slack, like every muscle from pinky-toe to neck is back to its original, proper length after being knotted, tensed, tangled for longer than he can remember. He's clumsy, too, countless after-explosions sparking in his legs and hands, so his palm skitters off Oz's cheek and thumps down on his back. He paws uselessly at Oz and hears that low, soft chuckle again.

Breaking the kiss, Oz slides his mouth, sticky and hot, down to Xander's ear. "Good?"

"Yeah, oh, *yeah* -" Xander gulps, remembering air, and tightens his hold around Oz's waist, pushing this weird, small, bony body against his, and now he can feel the bump of Oz's hard-on against his thigh and he tries, though his hand's thick and uncooperative, to work it between them, to touch Oz. "Um, I want -- Can I --?"

Closing his eyes, tipping back his head, Oz nods. "That'd be good."

His hand spazzes, but every time the heel of his palm coasts over the outline of Oz's cock, Oz jerks up and his mouth stretches open. Open mouth, tongue. Blowjob. Xander smacks his lips and rocks and shale start quaking inside his chest, closing his throat. "I don't, I can't -"

In the dark, Oz's eyes are the oddest shade of green, all shadows and riverwater, and they're watching Xander, coming closer, and Xander tilts his head for a kiss, but Oz nudges his hips forward and whispers, "Just do what you're doing. S'good."

Well, okay, Xander can do that. Soon as he gets the fly open, and everything's backward, but he works the zipper down as Oz kisses his chin, wide sucking kiss and Xander's thick, dumb hand is suddenly a genius. Apparently, anyway, because every squirm and push inside Oz's pants makes Oz go still and then twitch, and his eyes open, then squeeze shut, and Xander's *in*, inside this cave of hot cotton and hotter skin and he can do this. He can definitely do this, with Oz kneeling over him, poured over his chest, rocking into Xander's hand and making hard little grunts into Xander's mouth. Sounds have tastes, hands have genius, and Xander's fingers wrap around the base of Oz's dick, his palm's grooved just right for its width, and he's some kind of sex *prodigy*.

He always kind of half-suspected he could get the Nobel for masturbation, but it's good to know it's a talent he can share with others; like Desmond Tutu or Schweitzer, Xander's a *giver*. He gets a good, quick rhythm going, twist of the wrist and shove of the palm around superheated silk and marble-hardness, and Oz is panting against Xander's mouth, harsh fast little sounds that are almost whines, and his knees grip like a vise on Xander's hips, and the sound-smell-sight of it all and the friction, all the rocking, pushing, is enough to get Xander half-hard again. Oz's face is twisting, frowning, asking, sweat shining on his forehead, in his little skinny brows, and Xander licks it off, sucks on the brow and jacks harder. *He's* the one making Oz feel like this, move like this, *Xander's* giving him this, and right now that's the most spectacular thing he's ever seen, better than any vamp dusted or a hellmouth closed. Just this, this pale, weird-looking little guy burying his face in Xander's neck and fucking Xander's hand like it's the best thing he ever felt.

Oz freezes and Xander feels a wave of shakes break out down Oz's back and legs and then he's pushing, shoving forward and his dick's hot and full in Xander's hand and he's *coming*. Endless, shuddery spurts of it, over Xander's hand, onto his stomach, soaking through his shirt and Oz collapses limply, heavily, onto Xander's chest.

Sweat tastes like come tastes like spit, it's all water and salt and secrets, and Xander nuzzles the soft hair behind Oz's ear, patting his back like Oz is a baby getting burped. His other hand is trapped between his thigh and Oz's stomach, and that feels as right and good as the rest of this. He kisses the sweaty hollow of Oz's temple, skin stretched taut over bone, and then Oz lifts his head, opening his eyes.

"Hey," Oz says thickly, and coughs. He reaches up, grips the couch's arm behind Xander's head and pushes himself up to his knees. Xander's chest feels cold and weird without the weight. "Yeah. Thanks."

He's a guy; his dick just shot all over Xander's shirt, and he's got five o'clock shadow and a low, hoarse voice, and Xander just --.

*Fuck*.

"No problem," Xander says, and his voice almost squeaks. "You know. Just lending a --"

Smiling, so slowly it's like a dream, Oz starts to lower himself, eyelids drifting shut, and his lashes are red and long, really kind of pretty, and Xander's supposed to kiss him again, probably. He pushes Oz back, gently, not at all homophobically, and fakes a laugh.

"Sorry, just, you know, " Xander says and laughs for real this time, a little bark, like there's still some hyena in him.

Oz eases back, hand in his hair, pushing the spikes back up. "Yeah," he says, and looks sidewise at Xander. The TV's light picks out the whites of his eyes, makes the green look black. Xander hears Oz's zipper pulling it up. "Think I do."

Xander's hands roam restlessly over his face and neck, and then he remembers his shirt, and he tugs it down, then yanks up his pants, and, *Jesus*, he's sticky and stinky and still a little hard. His throat won't work quite right, no matter how often he swallows. He should say something, especially now, because Oz isn't looking at him any more, just staring at the TV where the credits screen is playing over and over as Mario zooms around the course.

He should say something, anything. Nothing's coming to mind. It's like thoughts are negative numbers, real and present but totally empty as Xander works his jaw and tries like hell to come up with something to say.

"You gonna stick around?" Xander asks eventually, circling his hand at the floor.

"Driver," Oz says.

"Yeah, forgot that."

Oz is very small; somehow, Xander didn't really notice just how small before, but now he thinks he could probably fold the guy up and put him in his backpack. He's bony, one of those puppets on strings, some strange Scott Weiland-Kurt Cobain marionette, and the skin on Xander's palms prickles at the memory of the smooth, tight skin on his back, the crisp tickle of his pubic hair. His dick, the pressure of his mouth.

"You want a ride?" Oz asks. "Can drop you home."

"No, I'm cool." If he drives you home, he'll know where you live. Somehow that's a bigger privacy or intimacy or whatever than fucking the guy's mouth. Xander squeezes his eyes shut, sees a ghostly Mario and the sharp angles of Oz's profile there, and tries to breathe.

"Shouldn't be walking around alone around here," Oz says.

"Good point." Xander opens his eyes and finds Oz looking at him. "Yeah, a ride'd be good."

Oz smiles. The little smile that's half-secretive, half-scarily knowledgeable, and nods. Just once; he doesn't seem to overdo anything and he rations his gestures well. Xander thinks he could learn a lot from that. That he should, at least, *try*. Sucking in another breath, he scoots closer, actually performs the stupid fake-a-yawn and drop-the-arm, and then he's holding Oz. Narrow shoulders that tuck in against Xander's side, soft hair that tickles the inside of his arm.

Oz touches Xander's chest lightly, traces the outline of drying come. "Sorry about that."

"It's okay," Xander says, looking down, taking in black nailpolish, white finger, dark red stain. Simple things, contrast and texture and touch. "I'm well-versed in the art of getting this stuff out so Mom never suspects a thing."

He's lying, of course; he's tried to wash socks, sheets, even a pair of pajama bottoms, over the years, and everything ends up clean but shrunken past use. But Oz looks up at him, inscrutable eyes and wide, curling smile, and right now, Xander figures he could probably do anything right.


End file.
